


Moving Forward in Zero-G

by Anonymous



Series: Rare Pairs [5]
Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Canon typical body horror, Conscription AU, Cowboy Idioms, F/F, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post-Canon, Rare Pairings, drug mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24937705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A new ship, some old memories. Some things are better when they're stolen.
Relationships: ?????? Elwurd/Skylla Koriga
Series: Rare Pairs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804840
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11
Collections: Anonymous





	Moving Forward in Zero-G

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to help me out of my writer's block- constructive criticism very appreciative. I always have trouble staying in character, and here is no exception. 
> 
> Might end up writing another chapter for this. I was very inspired by the mood of the prompt but I didn't technically fulfill it so... stay tuned

Sirens wail. Well, it’s not like you weren’t expecting them. Life as a pirate is good, but that good always comes with a price in the Alternian empire.

Ten minutes left, and the first will be spent deaf and blind as the day you hatched. Adrenaline courses through your veins as your vision comes back by degrees; shades of steel flash red with the warning loud in the air. Shutters of memories, memories pushed deep in your mind, flash red, too. 

_Her hands- rough with hard work but soft with sympathy- land lightly on your wrist._

_“You think you can butter me up with jewelry?” She meets your eyes at this, not embarrassed in the slightest. That’s Skylla: impossibly contradictory, light and sweet and tough as hell._

_“Don’t need to butter you up,” she finishes her adjustments, bending the metal more snugly around your wrist before snipping the ends with a wire cutter. “This one’s for me.” Her sign- taurist- in copper, close to your pulse. You wonder if she made it herself, melted down the metal again and again, burnishing the bronze to perfection. Hard to ignore the symbolism in the gesture._

_“I’ve been bringing you to way too many slam poetry readings,” you laugh. She leads you back, eyebrow raised, pushing you up to the wall. “You’re spoiling me rotten.”_

_“Barking at a knot. You always told me you were rotten,” she says, but there’s laughter in her eyes. “Maybe I’ve got bad taste.”_

_Her kiss lands so lightly against your pulse, beside her bracelet._

_Sometimes, you wonder if you’ll ever meet someone like her again. The empire calls you, but tonight, you’ll allow her to straighten you out, to burnish you bronze, to take the hammer to you._

Minute two: sirens still going at an impossible decibel. 

Fuck, guess this helmsman isn’t going to give up that easily. Boot-licker. As always, you change up your plans. 

With a whispered command- and one not-so-subtle barrage of your mind against someone else’s- you and your gang split. 

You’re alone. After endless hours of poring over maps and deciphering ship layouts, walking these halls on your own is almost nostalgic. You close your eyes, imagine the second dimension from your memories rising up beside you in the form of walls. Another left, and-

The helmsblock. Man, this guy is really just wailing up a storm. It’s not like you can see him, exactly, but all psychics can sense each other in the void. The walls are thin here, on this ship, in this space. This dude really needs a fucking chill pill.

But of course, the doors are locked and heavily surveilled. Fame doesn’t really suit you; you like your head connected to your shoulders, thank you very much.

It only takes a few moments of running your fingers around the wall until you find it. A seam, louder against the smooth, perfect steel than even the sirens are in your ears. 

Instinct takes hold; your left hand finds your right wrist. A slight tug pulls the bracelet free. 

Skylla was never considered a very good artist, for all that you loved her work. On the left edge is a flat, sharp notch in the metal where she struggled to cut through with blunted wire cutters. This has been your savior for sweeps, the key to your success as a pirate. You shove the notch into the seam with all of your strength. 

Spoiled rotten. You smirk. You hope you leave a bad taste in the empress’s mouth. 

The helmsman writhes in his cozy shackles of bio-material. You shove your hands in your pockets with a groan; this would be so much easier if you were a proper psychic. Empaths only get so far with their meager powers, and you, belothed as you are, are no exception. 

Hard work pays off, though, much as it hurts to part with some of your stock.

“Hey, buddy, take a chill pill,” you climb over his… body, (horror at his fate turns your stomach). And pull out a syringe. 

This proves to be a fatal mistake: various tendrils pull you tight to him.

“Ugh, and people wonder why I don’t go for dudes,” your arm is too far from your mouth, so you use your horns to uncap the needle. It’s disorienting, like moving in the third person, and by the time your syringe is uncapped you’re feeling dizzy. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen as he crushes your ribs. Fuck, you’ve got to get this done fast.

“C'mon, clingy, live a little, let’s get you loose,” you stab the needle deep into his body- the one he had before he became a ship, for decorum’s sake.

He slumps forward.

_She slumps forward._

_You grab her by the shoulder, checking if she’s alright. Laughter bubbles out of her, and if there’s one thing the clowns got right, it’s this: some laughter, from some people, is fucking terrifying._

_“C'mon, El, loosen up,” she giggles some more, flapping at you with her limp wrist._

_“Let’s go, cowgirl,” she laughs at the obvious nickname. Or maybe it’s the hesitance in which you said it; you don’t open up easily._

_“You’re sure being nice for such a bad girl,” she says as you bring her arm around your shoulder and help her stand. She’s solid beside you, matching your slow, steady footsteps._

_You hum, noncommittal. “And you sure are a lightweight for a cowgirl. Can’t hold your whiskey?”_

_“Can’t hold my,” she glances around, stifling giggles before leaning close and whispering in your ear. “Weed!” she laughs into your ear._

_“Never known you to do that,” you say. You keep your tone light, not sure how much worry might drive her away._

_“Never known you at all,” she says, stopping so abruptly to make you stumble. “I showed you mine. You never showed me yours. Thought I’d have to give it a lick and a promise, at the least.”_

_She meets your eyes. For once, she’s far away, calculating. You wonder if this is what she sees in you. If, perhaps, you can only know yourself if you glimpse it fleetingly reflected in another._

The sirens stop. Unfortunately, so does the rest of the ship. With no momentum and not psionic to power the internal centrifuge (or whatever it is, you’re no physicist), you’re at the mercy of zero-g. There is no up, no down, no starboard or larboard. There is only away.

You pull yourself through the ship with doorways and floating cargo. On your way out, you grab your bracelet from where it’s wedged into the door frame. Taurist is looking a little worse for wear these days.

Six minutes to go. 

The sounds of your crew giving this ship’s crew teeth lessons are coming from about 20 meters towards the cockpit. You leave them to it; there’s more precious cargo on this ship than coordinates and politics.

The cargo bay is, according to your own frame of reference, above and to the left of you.

Even after sweeps on a ship, it seems she never quite got the smell of hay out of her hair.

You smirk. For the next six minutes, there is only away.


End file.
